Spill me o’er the crystal falls where eons stretch to hold!
Kindly beckon courage from the iron will in stories told!
Grant me one last flight on wings above the alpine valleys low!
Spill my heart between the seams where mountain shadowed waters flow!
Dance my spirit o’er stormy tops in fields of azure skies!
Dash the color from the wounds there left beneath these fading eyes!
For all that I experience,
I am the subtle cause!
For all that I endure through life,
still grows a purpose from the loss!
Oh! Bathe me white in frozen streams!
Echo hearts’ resplendent joys!
Although I’ll leave as silvered man,
I lived here as a boy!
Golden ochre steeped in time,
aged by every season’s crime,
twined through burnished lacquer’s rust,
recalling each last sunray’s lust,
and every blue jay’s call…
Here it sits in still refrain
beneath the willow’s sweeping mane,
here imbibes in summer’s wine,
cast between these reaching vines,
that too, each year recall…
Among this life in moments stalled,
drifting cries of summer fall,
merge the glad of waiting dusk
with laughter from the day’s sweet musk,
and so record it all…
In grains of oak now tarnished brown,
in rusted bolts and furled crown,
in baked on mud upon its feet,
together aging perfumes sweet,
so sits here proudly small…
in whispers, beckons all…
Tucked among the southern pines,
seams of road in shadowed lines,
rend the compass pause, despair,
dissolves to solve the anywhere my journey longs to hold.
Sweet the ardor clings in green,
Spanish moss as ghosts between
the flickered gold of summer’s light,
or silver damp by moonlit night, defines the dewy cold.
Yet dodging through each quilted bank,
between the berms that stand in flank,
with balanced roar and roll of wings,
I slay each dragon tail there seen
to dance into the sun,
and through the southern forests run!
There between the fir’s snowed branches, whispers haunt in winter’s dance,
“Hush!”, she cried in rare defiance, “their whispered dreams don’t come by chance!”
Softly sparkled whiskers flitting through the early morning’s gleam,
whispering wishes for the new day held within this whispered dream.
Written for dVerse Poets Pub, Quadrille #24
Image – courtesy of public domain
Stretched across a steel grey sky,
suspended, held in motion,
November’s “V” shaped lines of peace,
eternal, together, broken.
Whispered through the firmament,
a rustled hush of wings,
purposed rowing, stroking home,
calmly metered autumn dreams.
Harvest stubble left to fields
in gently woven tawny rows,
counts the lea twixt bearded forests,
passing o’er the few perched crows
who claim a bleacher fence post,
chatting, calling kind farewells,
while overhead the gaggle moves
in steady flow, within the swells.
Tomorrow comes first snowfall,
its scent betrayed to naked fields,
where subtle breezes carry hopes
of winter’s coming, autumn’s yield.
Solitude in standing,
bathed in harvest’s milky moon,
hallowed by the moment caught,
suspended midst the stars, in tune.
What sparkles call him to this ledge?
What questions form within his head?
How long will starlight hold his heart until he purrs to bed?
No matter what the fatter waxing of a perfect night,
the moon, within the edge of room, spills thick its milky white.
Beyond the distant clatter of alley’s trash cans hunting din,
above the howling love songs, sick, repeated, moaned, again, again,
no greater pleasure drifts his way than this, one perfect poignant perch,
where past the moon, ‘twixt stardust seams, his simple pleasured dreams do search.
photo artwork by Kasia Derwinska
Moments dance in brittle waves, sparks between the autumn leaves, staining soft the shadowed hints of summer’s slow goodbye.
Dusk defines this edge in time, a poignant blush against the thread of season’s change, such sad lament, soft rose in deeper shadow hides.
Focus fades, day succumbs, autumn’s early eve draws cool, wraps a hint between the stars, appearing one or two.
Pull the night shade lastly, here, strain thine eyes to find the lines, hidden midst the whispered hush, summer’s secret stretched o’er time.
Clinging to the eloquent, flagging in the memory, drifting in the season spent, dreaming toward the one to be.